You and Me and Everyone We Know
by Cain Porter
Summary: Here is a story about Jill and Rebecca, who may have more in common than they think: their work, their teammates, and the men in their lives are all connected by a strange and terrible tragedy. UPDATE: The story is complete.
1. Chapter I: Rebecca

**JULY 23, 1998**

**10:17 PM**

**ooo**

"What the hell happened here?"

Bravo Team stood staring at the crashed van, illuminating the wreck with their official department-issued flashlights. Something like a steel cage had been crushed and crumpled into a knot. The ground was littered with shards of broken glass that glinted unevenly.

"What the hell happened here?" Enrico repeated, a little more deliberately than before. Richard gave Rebecca a pat on the back.

"That means start talking, rookie," he said helpfully.

Rebecca jumped at his touch. She gave a nervous half-nod before stepping forward to take a closer look at the vehicle. _Where to start? _she wondered, apprehensive. _What if this whole thing is a test? What if they take every rookie out here to look at a busted-down van and see what they say? Will they kick me off the squad if I fail? _She forced herself to focus and look outwards. "The skid marks on the road indicate the van came to an abrupt stop," she declared.

"What kind of van?" Enrico prompted.

"A...an armored car," she said, looking again at the steel reinforcements. Enrico's grunt of approval encouraged her. "A private transport, maybe a military convoy. It looks like the driver braked to avoid hitting an animal and lost control. There's a...a..." Rebecca caught sight of something trapped under the door and halted, stunned.

"T-there's a person under there, sir."

"Eh?" A few others cast their meager light towards the front, where an unnaturally pale and stiff hand clutched upright at the air. Enrico had scarcely seen it when he jerked out his two-way radio. "Oh, shit."

All thoughts of meeting expectations flew from Rebecca's mind as she ran to the scene. Even as she grasped the hand she knew it was too late, knew there wouldn't be a pulse or so much as a trace of warmth. Her heart sank and for a moment she was paralyzed with guilt. To die slowly on a crooked forest backroad, alone and helpless...

She looked to Edward for reassurance. Although Richard was the Bravo member officially appointed to assist her, he was so careful and considerate about her feelings that Rebecca couldn't always take him at his word. Edward was always blunt and straightforward, and (she'd die before she admitted it) kind of handsome, too. But she had no sooner glanced up than she realized something was very wrong. Everyone was suddenly on their hands and knees around the van, frowning. Forest had already opened his work kit and put on a pair of rubber gloves.

After a few heaving efforts Kenneth and Richard pulled away part of the windshield. They were left gaping in slackjawed horror at the remains. "What the everloving Christ?!"

The rest of Bravo Team gathered behind them. Rebecca hurried around to look, but Richard held her back. "Hold on a second, kiddo. I don't think--"

"Let go! I'm not..."

Two bodies lay dismembered in what was left of the front seat. Blood, bone and viscera was splattered around them. The man in the driver's seat had had his throat torn out, exposing part of his spine. Red streaks covered the carriage, but the steel restraints had been broken. Something yellow and viscous that Rebecca immediately identified as part of a liver was smeared on the close grass.

"Fuck," said Forest, who wasn't very original with swear words.

Rebecca felt her knees shake but stayed firm, determined to prove herself strong. She averted her eyes and tried to look for something, anything that wasn't covered in blood. A clipboard wedged in the steering wheel caught her attention. "Hey," she said, squirming out of Richard's grip and reaching for the clipboard. "It looks like a dossier. This must have been a police transport."

"Dossier? What's it say?"

There was a mug shot of a surly-looking man in a wifebeater. " 'Coen, William Abraham III'," she read. "Former second lieutenant, United States Marine Corps, court-martialed on..."

"Coen? The Marine murderer Coen?" Kenneth asked disbelievingly. "Out _here_? What's the most hated man in America doing in the middle of nowhere?"

Enrico bent low, turning away and wincing at the smell. "The feds probably didn't want it to be any more of a circus than it is already. Jesus, what happened here...?"

"I don't see his body," said Edward with a sneer. He had spent a few years in the Army and had a notorious grudge against Marines. "The scumbag must've killed them and escaped after the crash."

"Are you blind? A man didn't do this."

"Marines are brutal sons of bitches!"

"Brutal sons of bitches with canine teeth?" Enrico snapped.

Rebecca held the clipboard tightly, not wanting to look at the carnage again. As she gazed at the photograph she found herself strangely drawn to the face in the photograph. Something about Lieutenant Coen's scowl seemed to accuse her personally. _Did you do this? _Rebecca wondered. _If you didn't, where did you go...?_

"It looks just like the cannibal murders! It makes perfect sense if Marines are behind all this, the public would never believe it and they could stay outside the law--"

"Dewey, shut your goddamn mouth."

Despite her best efforts Rebecca had begun to hyperventilate. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself with rational thoughts. There was nothing to worry about, no reason to be scared. The crime had already taken place and now she only had to do her job. Everything would be all right. Rebecca took several deep breaths and pretended she was her idol, the beautiful and fearless rear security agent on Alpha Team...

**ooo**


	2. Chapter II: Jill

Jill sat with her arms crossed. After a few seconds she uncrossed her arms and crossed them again, frowning. The papers on her desk were impeccably filed and her personal effects (a coffee cup, a tape recorder, and a few pencils) had been sorted just as she liked it. Now, on her fifth hour of department-mandated overtime, she had nothing to do.

The squad room was empty but for Alpha Team, which sat waiting at their desks. Waiting pointlessly, Jill thought. Why had they been called to offer backup for Bravo? The whole point of two special forces units, or so Jill had always believed, was so that they could work alternately, but now they were just wasting time and resources. _Not to mention there's no reason Bravo should be out there anyhow; we're in charge of the cannibal killings! If anything happens out there it's our jurisdiction. What was Irons thinking? Why are we here? And why is Wesker going along with this?_

Above her the fluorescent lights flickered and hummed. Brad was engaged in a contentious game of poker with Joseph, who still hadn't won a round after two hours. On the other side of the room Chris was slowly and meticulously stacking up a six-layer ham sandwich. If anyone minded contributing to such a total waste of resources they didn't say anything.

"Care to make your dissatisfaction a bit more obvious, Officer Valentine?" Captain Wesker's chair was facing away from the others, but he was somehow as mindful as ever; Jill supposed he used mirrors, or maybe they were just very predictable. She felt the eyes of the others and glowered.

"Why are we here?" she asked.

"That's a little existential, isn't it?" he replied with a dismissive chuckle.

"Don't condescend me."

There was a general tense murmur. Everyone had their little power struggles with Wesker occasionally, but Jill's were different. She didn't flare up and laugh it off later; like Wesker himself, she held her grudges. Jill didn't want to argue. Jill wanted to win.

Wesker turned around, rewarding her with rare eye contact from behind his sunglasses. There was something undeniably superior about his expression. "No one ever said all police work was exciting. This is part of the job, Officer Valentine. Don't forget that."

"Our job is investigating the cannibal homicides, not babysitting Bravo Team."

"Since when is providing necessary backup 'babysitting'?"

"Since when does looking for an escaped cow require backup?"

The men roared with good-natured laughter. Joseph's most famous mission from his Bravo days was known all over the state and a cherished legend at the RPD. Meanwhile, the story's star flushed uncomfortably. "Laugh all you want, but you would've asked for backup, too," he muttered. "That thing practically wrecked our cruiser."

"What's your problem with Bravo these days, Jill?" Brad put in, sneaking a card from under the table into the deck while Joseph was looking away. "I heard you bitching to Enrico and then Irons about the new hire. What's that about?"

That was one of the worst parts about a male-dominated workplace: the guys tended to gang up on her, especially when Wesker started it. The RPD, Jill reflected, had about the same emotional dynamic as her nephew's Secret Special No-Girls-Allowed Treehouse Club.

Jill readied herself to be on the defensive, as always. "You have to be twenty-one to start as an officer. If that was the only rule they bent for this, I wouldn't care. But putting a kid with no experience on special teams is an insult and a liability to the department."

"I thought that too at first. But actually, I think it's a good decision."

That unexpected comment came from Chris, who had stopped mid-bite to contribute. He was something of an authority on Bravo Team as he often worked overtime shifts to help them out. The general sentiment of the department was that Enrico would eventually transfer to Quantico, and Chris would take his place; the only question was what would happen to Chris and Wesker's little rivalry.

"The fact is," Chris went on, "I met her when she first came to the academy for training. A little shy, sure, but she's gonna be a great cop. She's a science genius. Only 18 and she's already done with college, Forest says she figured out how to do a bunch of shortcuts with the drug testing kits that could save us a lot of money. She's something special."

Jill didn't remember taking hold of a pencil while he was speaking, gripping it, then snapping it in half between her fingers, but there it was. For whatever reason something about Chris's words made her want to fling the pieces at him. She cringed.

Wesker lowered his gaze in a contemptuous fashion, and Jill knew at once the he was about to say something particularly stinging. Sure enough, he delivered. "Now really, Officer Valentine. Let's give credit where credit's due. There's no need to feel..._threatened_."

The only thing that kept Jill from hitting Wesker straight in the face was a quick interjection from Barry. Barry was usually content to "let the kids have it out", but when he spoke his word was law. "For God's sake, Wesker. Stop breakin' balls."

"Ovaries," Joseph corrected. Next to him Brad was saying "No, but really, have you seen it? I swear I thought she was wearing padded pants..."

It was all more than Jill could stand. She rose, letting her chair scrape on the cold linoleum tile, and stalked towards the door. There were a few groans and pleas for her to stay, for her to not take a bunch of shit-talking so seriously. Jill resolutely ignored everyone except Wesker.

"Where are you going, Valentine?" he asked sharply.

"I'm getting coffee."

"We're here to support Bravo Team. Don't forget that."

"As long as we're giving credit where credit's due, _Captain_, you don't seem to have much faith in Bravo. It sounds to me like you're expecting Bravo to run into trouble out there."

She'd only meant to point out his hypocrisy, but Wesker was stricken in a different way. He stared at her, then turned around again. When he spoke his voice was perfectly composed. "Don't take long," he said at last, and that was all. The room was silent once more.

Jill wondered if there was anything else to say. At the end she thought better of it and left, stomping furiously down the hall. She could only hope that Bravo's new hire was facing down an extremely dangerous bull.

**ooo**


	3. Chapter III: Rebecca

Rebecca held her gun unsteadily, keeping a light but measured grip on the trigger. It wasn't that she had any intention of firing it at Billy--unless she had to, of course; if he _tried_ anything--and she wasn't sure if he would--but she couldn't tell, and she couldn't afford to take chances--but she couldn't be obvious about it. She sighed. It was like trying to deal with an extremely dangerous bull.

_A mass murdering bull,_ Rebecca reminded herself. She couldn't lose sight of the mass murderer part, not even for a second, even in the midst of all the undead and monster leeches and senseless bloodshed. For nearly five minutes after meeting that first creature she'd chanted "it's only a dream" in a desperate attempt to wake up. It hadn't worked. It wasn't a dream, and if she didn't pay attention, she'd be dead. That meant watching out for her partner as much as any other threat.

The shadowy mugshot Rebecca had seen bore little resemblance to the Billy who stood in front of her, punching and shooting like a late-80s action hero. He even had the cocky attitude and grunted one-liners down pat. Rebecca had been struck from the first at how..._non-criminal_ he seemed. Mean? Yes. Surly? Definitely. But a cold-blooded murderer?

In the past thirty minutes he'd saved her life three times. Was he trying to set her up, or win her over and shoot her when she was no longer useful? Try as she might, Rebecca couldn't figure out how she was useful to him _now_. He knew her radio was malfunctioning, he could outmuscle her with one hand behind his back, and he had plenty of firepower. There was no logical reason for him to keep her around. Yet there he was, watching after her as though he were a hired bodyguard.

Billy spent a few seconds jiggling the lock on the door, then dropped his hands in frustration. "I'm tired of this stupid key shit!" he snarled, smashing the door down with a single furious kick. He looked exceedingly satisfied at his physical prowess. Rebecca waited for the splinters to settle before following him into the room, only to run into his back. Billy had stopped short right in front of her.

"God _damn_," he said, breathless with amazement. "God damn, this isn't half bad after all!"

Rebecca had to wait for him to move out of the way before she could see anything. The next room was an exquisitely decorated dining car. Even the overturned furniture and shattered glass couldn't do much to diminish the sense of old-world Victorian elegance. Billy's attention had been immediately drawn to the floor-to-ceiling bar on the far wall, which had miraculously survived unscathed. In the dim light the bottles shone and sparkled.

"Well, like they say, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Hm, hm...what to choose? God damn, I want everything...shit, they have _Booker's!_ Decision made." He plucked a tall bottle off the shelf and opened it, but paused before he could take a drink. "No, it'd be a crime to drink this without a glass. You want a shot, dollface?"

"I..." Rebecca nearly said "I'm eighteen", then thought better of it. Billy didn't need to know any more about her than he did already. "Th-this is no time to drink!"

"Are you kidding? Maybe you haven't noticed, but it's the goddamn Apocalypse in here, baby! When the hell else would we do it?"

_And what's all this "we" business? _Rebecca thought uncomfortably. She didn't drink, but had to admit she could do with a little liquid courage. Anything to numb the pain and spur her on would be good. That was what grizzled detectives always did, wasn't it? A tiny sip, or maybe just half a shot. That couldn't hurt. If anything, it would calm her down.

"Amaretto? Frangelico? Maybe some creme de cacao?"

"No thanks." She walked forward, refusing to look at or otherwise acknowledge Billy. Instead she looked around, somewhat overwhelmed by the wealth of choices. At last she recognized one of her father's favorite drinks on a convenient low shelf. Its familiar appearance was a source of comfort. Rebecca carefully poured herself what she believed was a very judicious amount. She had just raised the glass to her lips when she noticed Billy's incredulous stare. "What?" she asked, annoyed.

"You know what you're drinkin' there, sweetheart?" he asked.

For once she felt she could stand up to him. "What, Oban? We have a 32-year bottle at home that I'm supposed to get for when I get married...but we have some of this, too." _Stop it! You're not friends, he doesn't need to know that! You don't have to open up to him just because he's the only one around. _She took a sip and found it surprisingly pleasant. It tasted a little like dried fruits.

Billy planted his elbows on the bar and watched her from a distance, his brow furrowed. "My grandfather used to say that any woman who could appreciate fine scotch was a rare treasure. Wouldn't have expected it outta a half-pint like you, that's all."

His face was still dark, but the way he regarded her was different. Somehow his vague approval scared Rebecca more than his contempt. What did it mean to be liked by a mass murderer? But the alcohol filled her gut with warmth and confidence and she realized she didn't care what he thought. "Anyway," she said, setting down her glass, "it'll be over soon. Most of the train is cleared by this point, isn't it? Alpha Team will come in soon and take care of it."

"Alpha Team? Who the hell are they?"

"They're the most elite branch of the department's Special Tactics unit. I'm with Bravo Team."

"Oh, great. Are they all pretty ballerinas like you, or do these ones have princess crowns?"

What gave him the right to be dismissive of the RPD? If she had time for another drink she would've corrected him about the ballerina part; Rebecca was so clumsy she'd failed out of her childhood dance classes. "Alpha Team is one of the highest-performing SWAT teams in the nation. They're world-renowned, even! One of the serving officers, she was with Delta Force!"

"Delta Force?" Billy raised an eyebrow. "That can't be right. The Army doesn't let women on special forces teams."

Rebecca had always been too intimidated to talk to Officer Valentine, but she clung to all the rumors she heard. "No no, see. She was in Africa when Delta Force came to rescue her unit, and _she_ ended up helping _them_. She was with UNAMIR in Rwanda..."

Billy laughed, the kind of slow, drawn-out laugh that implied superiority and ill-concealed bitterness. "Oh, that explains everything, then," he said, with a humorless grin. "No wonder. Those dumb sons of bitches sat around with their thumbs up their asses and did shit while we did all the heavy lifting. Well, excuse me if I've got more faith in the frilly cupcakes--sorry, Bravo Team--than anybody from UNAMIR."

Rebecca put her hands on her hips and frowned. "Whatever. If you met Officer Valentine, you wouldn't think that."


	4. Chapter IV: Jill

**ooo**

If anyone met Jill in the hallway just then they would have had a less than favorable impression of her mental health. She walked with her hands balled in fists, seething and stomping. She'd made a point of going to the farthest coffee pot she knew of, if only to get herself as far as possible from that moron Chris and those other assholes. Better yet, by the time she got back, she would've had a little time to clear her head.

The long trek to coffee was made longer by the requisite shuffling around for appropriate keys, gems and emblems. Deputy Director Irons had been a renowned semiologist before coming to the RPD and he'd made his particular field of study known. Although it was a royal pain, theft of office supplies was down fifty-seven percent.

Jill found the storeroom elevator key (a butterfly-shaped emerald) in her back pocket and angrily jammed it into the lock. _She's a science genius_, Chris had said. _Only 18 and she's already done with college..._

So...she must have graduated college at 14. So what? Since when was law enforcement about being book smart? Of all the brilliant people Jill had ever known, _none_ of them had been child prodigies. No amount of education could substitute for, or pay off like old-fashioned experience.

A science genius; who gave a damn? They should hire her in the forensics lab if she's so goddamn smart, then. Beat cops had a lot of work to do, and that work wasn't about knowing stupid shit like how many molecules were in a grain of salt or whatever. College had never been in Jill's plans and she certainly didn't consider it a loss. She'd gone straight to academy, become a peacekeeper and kicked a hell of a lot of ass. Her time in Africa had made her strong, fierce, and relentless. At the end of her mission she'd been genuinely content with herself, a first in her life.

There she was, twenty-one years old and a decorated veteran from one of the hottest combat zones in the world. The Army had been eager to have her, but Jill had instead accepted a lateral transfer to a small-town Special Forces unit. It would be hard work, they told her, and it would keep her in shape until she was ready to return to the military. Drug busts and domestic violence calls would be a welcome relief after bombs and roadside grenades.

She'd first come in to Raccoon City in April, just before the springtime academy. There had been a lot of rumors about the department chief's peculiar vices, which Jill had been quick to investigate. "Don't worry," someone had told her. "You're what, twenty-two? Nah, Irons won't be interested...you're way too old."

That had been one hell of a way to start. Sure enough, Irons was a pervert; Jill had only needed to see the mustache to know something wasn't quite right. But in time Irons had earned her respect. The man was a sicko, but he was also the best goddamn politician in Raccoon. He played a mean game of hardball with the press and could scare the pants off the most seasoned prosecutors. Under Irons' leadership the RPD had secured more funding, publicity, and resources than any other local department of a comparable size. The man didn't give a damn about how his officers worked, how they dressed, or how they spent their time. All he wanted were the best results at any cost. That single-minded determination was something Jill could admire--even if it meant taking orders from a man who leered at girls in the junior department.

Irons' strange workplace had encouraged some almost as strange employees. There was Wesker, Alpha Team's hardass but sort of goofy-looking captain; burly, fatherly Barry; frat twins Brad and Joseph, and--

They'd first met on her first day in town, before academy. Jill's flight had been delayed and she'd reported to the station just seven hours ahead of her first shift. Instead of going back to her apartment she'd decided to turn in on one of the station beds. There was just one double bunk, with ratty sheets and pillows that had been patched on the sides. Jill had been resting on the bottom bunk for just a moment when he came in.

"Gee, sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to wake you up!"

Jill considered pointing out that if he hadn't woken her up before, he certainly would have _now_, but something about his face suggested the logic would be lost on him. He was of average height but sturdily built, like the cornfed Midwestern farmboys from the 1950s.

"Is something going on?" she asked.

"Huh? Oh, no. I'm just gonna take a nap. That okay?"

"I don't care," Jill said, closing her eyes. Then she remembered the rules of military preference; in Africa she'd be damned if she ever thought of resting in a superior officer's favorite spot. This guy didn't look like the type, but she didn't want to assume. "Unless this is yours."

The stranger clambered up to the top bunk with surprising agility, then flopped onto the bed. "Nah. The top is better anyhow. I like to pretend I'm at summer camp."

Jill began to wonder if she'd made the right career decision. _Well, at least he's not Special Tactics_, she thought. _Unless they mean something very different by "special"..._

But she soon learned he was Special Tactics, and in the following days and weeks she came to learn a lot more about him. Chris Redfield was big, friendly, and utterly unlike any man she'd ever known. He smiled too wide at absolutely anything. He said things like "what's shakin', bacon" and gave high-fives to the regular drunks in lockup. Most infuriating of all, he couldn't so much as come near a crime scene without making stupid jokes.

The jokes drove Jill up the wall. They were inappropriate, disrespectful, and not even remotely funny. What was even more bewildering was how the rest of the team didn't seem to care. No, they just put up the tape and called forensics while Chris made puns about falling pianos. No one ever gave him so much as a nudge in the ribs for it. She had finally confronted him about it. He'd just shrugged, said "It's for my sake as much as anybody else's," and that was all. Two weeks would go by before she began to understand what he meant.

It began with an afternoon phone call, never a good sign: when desk phones rang, it almost always meant somebody up top was pissed off. Chris, who spent more time in Irons' office than all the others combined, rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Anybody wanna guess what I did this time?" he grinned.

He had just picked up the receiver when his face went pale. He sat up in his chair. "He did _what?!_" he roared. "That stupid no-good son of a BITCH! I'll kill him! I'll--sorry. Sorry." Chris scratched his head, but he was still seething. "Okay. I want you to go to the supermarket and pick up three pints of Phish Food, all right? Two for me, one for you. Order two four-layer meat pizzas from Today's and--no, you don't _have_ a meeting for your business class, not anymore. Listen to me. Are you listening? What's harder than cutting class?"

There was an awkward tension in the room. Alpha Team was suddenly extremely busy with their own things. Jill tried to focus on her paperwork.

"Putting it back together." A sound of agitated, uncertain sobbing came from the other end. "Right. I'm gonna drop by Blockbuster and pick up Romy and Michele's High School Reunion. I'll be there in a half-hour. Love you lots and then some. Bye."

Jill blinked, unable to process what she had just witnessed. Chris was already slinging on his bomber jacket and halfway out the door. "Sorry, Wesker. There's an emergency..."

There was a split second of tension. Wesker was famously hard-ass about letting people off; he never even gave more than one sick day at a time. Jill doubted he'd authorize Chris's leave, especially after overhearing that phone call. But Wesker simply waved.

"By all means. I wish my friends would be as considerate of their loved ones. Go."

Jill felt a lump in her throat. She'd never seen Chris look that serious about anything. His words echoed in her head. _Love you lots and then some. Love you lots and then some..._Chris didn't wear a wedding ring. Well, lots of people did the cohabitation thing these days. She shouldn't be so surprised. And she certainly shouldn't feel so strange. But...

The office went quiet again. Jill had a feeling the rest of the office seemed to know exactly what was going on, but she couldn't possibly ask. Everyone else looked thoughtful and a little sad except for Joseph, who looked around furtively. When no one moved to say anything, he turned straight to Wesker and said the words that perhaps everyone was thinking, but didn't dare say:

"What...you have _friends_?"

And so Alpha Team spent the next half-hour doing push-ups.


	5. Chapter V: Rebecca

_**Note: the following chapter was originally placed as Chapter III. If you have already seen this portion please read the (since corrected) Chapter III. I apologize for the error. - CP**_

**ooo**

If there was anything good to come out of the evening, it would be the opportunity to finally use all those backbreaking exercises from academy. In the past two hours Rebecca had leapt, skipped and army-crawled her way through the White Umbrella facility. She was actually glad for all the hours spent hauling around rice bags in the summer sun and doing squats. All of it had been helpful...well, except for the push-ups, which only seemed to exist for wasting time or getting punished.

The corporate factory, or research lab, or whatever it was had either been designed by fifteen different people or a complete psychopath. Elegant parlors were alternated with austere operating theatres and Gothic dungeons. The disjointed design reinforced Rebecca's fear of what lay behind Umbrella: not one man, but a whole network of deranged madmen. She and Billy had started to take bets on what kind of nightmare lay behind locked doors. It was something to do between debating about sports teams and hearing about Billy's last fifteen hook-ups.

"...there was Anna, for a little while, in Switzerland. Sassy, hot, had legs that went on for _miles_. And they curved just the right way too, real graceful. When she wore stilettos it was like looking at a goddamn Greek goddess. Spent a lot of great days behind the boulevard with her. She was fantastic."

"Was this before or after Marlena?"

"Right after. About the same time as Beatrix, but before Ellen."

Rebecca shook her head. "How do you even have time for all those affairs?"

"They're not 'affairs', they're flings," Billy corrected with a touch of indignation, but he winked. "The military doesn't really lend itself to love and romance and all that jazz. When you're outta the country ten months a year there's no point. The guys that try it, they're so goddamn miserable all the time. It's too hard."

"So you're a professional heartbreaker or what?"

"I don't mean to be," he said, so mock-innocent that Rebecca burst out laughing in spite of herself. "But...nah. You gotta be up front with the ladies, tell 'em you're not in it for the long run. And so you get different kinda girls, which is all right, and after a while it doesn't matter 'cause you're not even attracted to other ones anyway."

His particular phrasing piqued Rebecca's curiosity. "What do you mean, 'other ones'?"

"Eh, you know...the uptight ones, the smart ones, quirky ones...eventually they're just not real hot anymore. Marriage seems like a dumb idea. But then you meet a broad with that perfect shade of corn-yellow hair and a nice rack and then you're all deluded about makin' an honest woman outta a port whore."

This little piece of soldiers' wisdom was almost entirely lost on Rebecca, who had heard the first words and essentially stopped listening. She stood with her arms folded tightly, her lips in a narrow line.

"So once you recognize a woman as smart or different, she stops being pretty?" she said curtly.

Billy opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again. "Yeah, somethin' like that," he admitted.

"You're disgusting."

"Hey, hey, I'm just saying..."

"That you're a creepy misogynist? That you don't want a woman to be a challenge to you? That all your romantic relationships are based on inequality and dominance?"

"Wait just a goddamn minute, Dr. Laura," Billy spat. He wheeled around in front of Rebecca and pointed his finger straight in her face. This time he looked genuinely indignant. "That's some pretty little bullshit right there from a geeky virgin like you. Don't correct me," he went on before Rebecca could protest, "because you know I'm right. Sorry, hon, but I don't take life advice from shut-ins who haven't even seen the underside of football bleachers."

"_What _did you call me?" she hissed. "You bastard, you're a--"

His left hand shot out and clapped over her mouth, silencing her. In that one gesture everything about him seemed to change. He was no longer angry or even annoyed; he was focusing on something in the distance. Rebecca stared intently and saw a few small, flickering figures reflected in his eyes.

"Mmphr?"

"Apes," he breathed. "In the room we just left...gotta be twenty, thirty of 'em, at least. They're crouching."

"Mmmr mmr?"

"It means they're waiting for us to move. One step in any direction and they're gonna be all over our asses. Gimme a grenade, we're low on ammo."

"Mmmmn..." Frightened as she was, Rebecca wished Billy would get a grip. She carefully reached up to pry his fingers away. "Billy," she said softly but urgently, "we can't use a grenade. I saw a container marked 'potassium perchlorate' in that room."

Billy didn't look at her, but his face registered surprise. "Explosive, huh?" he whispered.

"Not to mention we don't know what else is in there. Why don't we just shoot?"

"They're too close. Not that many, not that quickly. Just gimme a grenade and let's try our luck."

"Billy..."

"Shh. Don't move."

Rebecca felt her skin crawling. This had been her greatest fear since leaving the Ecliptic Express: that she would survive all the head-on zombie encounters, only to die in some stupid trap or surprise attack. What if they were too slow? Or what if the blast blew them both to high heaven? If it was enough to put Billy on edge, Rebecca didn't want to imagine how much danger they were in. She could only hold her breath and trust him completely. His criminal history never even came to mind.

Billy slowly reached down to unhook a grenade off Rebecca's belt. His expert fingers cupped slightly around the bowl of her hips.

"Stop groping me," Rebecca said flatly.

"What, you think I'm enjoying this?" There was a pause, then Billy flashed a wicked grin. " 'Cause I am."

"I hate you."

But she tolerated it, letting him carefully unhook two grenades as his hands danced lightly over top of her jeans. The moment seemed to stretch on for hours. At long last Billy took two grenades, held them behind his back, and nodded. "Okay, cutie pie. Get ready to duck."

"I'm rea--"

Rebecca watched the grenades soaring above without looking up; she realized, rather too late, that she was falling. She braced herself for a painful landing that never came, but instead ducked under a mushrooming cloud of fire. Brilliant, bone-scorching heat seemed to light up the room and flare out into the night as the apes howled. For a while she lay with her eyes shut until it occurred to her that something wasn't quite right. When she opened her eyes she wished she hadn't.

Billy was flat on top of her, his forearms curled under her neck (_no wonder I didn't feel anything). _"Holy fuck!" he shouted. "What the fucking hell was that, fucking napalm? God damn!"

There was a second smaller explosion, but Rebecca scarcely noticed. As a child prodigy, she'd graduated high school before she could even shop at the junior department. Her experience with men was limited to the conclusions of her own very rational mind. Romance, she had decided, wasn't nearly as mysterious or bizarre as people made it out to be, and there could be no romantic inclination worth the sacrifice of common sense. But that was all before she had an enormous, immaculately sculpted hunk of man-meat pressed up against every inch of her body.

Rational thinking had somehow become very difficult. Rebecca looked away, but that only made her more aware of Billy's rippling muscles up against her skin. Even the fetid smell of clotted zombie innards wasn't distracting enough. She couldn't understand how something so obviously unpleasant could be so...so...well, _not_ unpleasant. Not at all.

_Stop it. This is unacceptable. He has the brains of a postage stamp. He's dumb and annoying and a chauvinist and so __**big**__ what would it be like to reach up--_

"Shit, that was a big one," Billy said, whistling. "We oughta get some of that to take along if there's any left. Think we could find a safe way to store some of that, sugarbun?" When Rebecca didn't respond he looked down at her. "Eh? You okay, Becky?"

It took a lot of courage to stare straight at him, but Rebecca did her best. "You can get off me now," she said, with some difficulty.

Billy cocked his head. "What, no 'thank you for saving my life, you sexy beast'?" He shifted his weight down, pinning her closer. "Awfully ungrateful, if you ask me. Besides, what's the rush...?"

This was not what she needed. This was absolutely not what she needed and then some: the only thing worse than having extremely counterproductive thoughts was having them encouraged. She tried to mask her panic as impatience, but it was a struggle. "Billy, come on. I'm not in the mood for this."

"Oh, sure, that's what they all say at first..." A yowling ape, lone simian survivor of the explosions, leapt over Billy's back and started scratching at him. Billy took his arm from under Rebecca and grabbed his gun. "Hey!" he cried angrily, blowing the monster over with a single spray of ammo. "We're having a moment here!"

"There's no 'moment' and there's no 'we'!" Rebecca wailed. "Get off!"

**ooo**


	6. Chapter VI: Jill

**ooo**

Jill stood waiting for the coffee pot to fill. There was something comforting in the steady dripping sound and the mild tang of Barry's favorite Chock-Full-O'Nuts. It was a lot easier to think now that she wasn't being harassed on all sides by a bunch of overgrown apes. She sighed, tapped her fingers, and thought back to that day so many months ago, the day she'd first realized that at least one of her teammates was maybe more than an ape.

After Chris's outburst on the phone Jill had sought out Forest, a young but cocky member on Bravo Team. Forest and Chris were drinking buddies (beer and bourbon), bridge buddies (Chris had odd taste in card games), shooting buddies (they were both ex-military snipers), and shopping buddies (Brad swore they shared underwear). If there was anyone who could explain what had happened, it would be Forest.

"You thought it was his fiancé?" Forest had laughed, a little startled at Jill's hypothesis. "Oh, no. That's his little sister, Claire. Sounds like things are going rough. That's the last thing she needs, especially after everything else..."

" 'After everything'?"

"After the accident. Chris is doing all right, as much as anybody could be under the circumstances, but it's pretty tough on Claire. I mean, she's got that stress on her shoulders plus adjusting to a new place, and it seems to me that she's seeking out guys to substitute for Chris." He nodded sagely, then flushed. "But that's just my theory. Don't tell Chris, okay? He never appreciates when I try to get intellectual about it."

Jill was amused at the idea of Forest playing therapist while the two played pool, but something was still missing. "What accident? What happened?"

Forest stared at like she was an alien. "Are you serious?" Apparently Jill's sincere expression must have convinced him, because he finally went on.

"Oh! Oh, no wonder. I guess there's no harm in telling you, since most of the department was at the funerals. Chris lost his mother, father, and two aunts in a freak driving accident in the spring. It was pretty bad, and since nobody had any life insurance, Chris had to take care of most of it himself. So he's trying to look after his sister, see, but she's just going into college and I think she didn't really have time to grieve because there's this thing in feminine psychology..."

For a while Jill was stunned speechless. She recalled when she had first seen Chris's desk and the many cards that had cluttered its surface. In the spring, Forest had said; the accident must have occurred just weeks before. Which meant just days after losing his parents he had climbed into a bunk above Jill and said _I like to pretend I'm at summer camp..._

She had never known. She never could have known. Chris didn't betray so much as a dejected thought. He was always smiling, always cheery, always had a dumb joke and a wave even when blood and guts were splattered on the pavement. After all, it was for his sake as much as anybody else's.

The coffee maker announced its completion with a few beeps, snapping Jill back to the present. She shook her head vigorously and poured herself a cup. In the months that followed she and Chris had become pretty close, close enough that she wasn't entirely sure how close they were. Jill had suspicions that Joseph raised her eyebrows at them every now and then--or maybe she was just flattering herself. It bothered her more than she liked to admit.

At last Jill began the long trek back to the squad room. The coffee gave her a much-needed boost of energy and helped get her thoughts back on track. She was just tired, that was all, and stressed from spending hours writing traffic reports. Next Thursday she'd leave early and spend the afternoon at the track, maybe order some dinner. If the department so much as tried to call she would throw away the phone.

Except for Barry's nod of acknowledgment, Alpha Team didn't seem to have noticed her absence. Everyone was busy with their own little time-wasters, as if they were hanging out at home rather than preparing to back up another Special Forces team. Chris sat with his guitar in his lap, lazily playing the few progressions he knew. For all his best efforts he didn't have a musical bone in his body. "Drunken Chris Karaoke" had been the highlight of the RPD Christmas parties for several years now.

"I'm a spy," Chris sang in his warbling, somewhat off-key way, "in the house of love..."

Jill took a few gulps of coffee. For forty thousand dollars a year life was pretty easy. After all, she'd gotten less than half that under constant gunfire. She decided to spend the rest of her shift getting silent revenge on Wesker and not do any more paperwork. Instead she took a few blank crime reports and started filling in fake names. For a while she amused herself with the life and times of Fred Jansen, a three-time murderer who had just robbed a middle school cafeteria.

There was a series of loud electronic beeps, and Joseph held up his watch arm. Some people set alarms for when they needed to wake up or head to work; Joseph set his for the 2 A.M. discount at Bueno Burrito Barn. "Okay, guys. What's it gonna be? Remember, enchilada boxes are only five bucks apiece after two o'clock."

"What about House of Hunan?" asked Brad, who had made quite a killing off Joseph's total ineptitude. "I could go for some greasy lo mein if anybody else is down. They have after midnight specials, too. What about you, Chris?"

"I'm a spy...in the house of love..."

Jill glanced up, ready to tell him to can it, only to discover Chris was already looking straight at her. She stared. He looked right back, his face friendly and clueless as ever. His hands stopped on the guitar.

Then just as abruptly it was over. Chris swung around in the chair, kicked up his feet on the desk and continued to play. "I know the dream...that you're dreamin' of..." He jerked his head slightly in Brad's direction. "Eh, I could go for anything, really. Maybe some burgers or barbecue. There could be Cheetos left over in the vending machines downstairs."

"Whatever, man, you can't sugar crash. You gotta have some _meat_!"

If Jill were the sort of person who had a gaggle of girlfriends (or any girlfriends, Jill thought cynically), she might ask them what they thought had happened. She sure as hell didn't know. But Jill wasn't the sort of person who had friends, and didn't like discussing her private life with anyone. She just drew a question mark in the margin of a crime report. "I'll have whatever," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "I don't really care..."

She glanced around at the others, who were still preoccupied. Alpha Team was one hell of an assignment, half cushy desk job and half paramilitary special ops. Some days they stopped for tacos and Krispy Kreme between busting meth labs. Solitary as she was, she liked the sense of camaraderie her work afforded. It was more intimate than the military, with more personal dependence and trust. Barry and Wesker, the longest-serving members of the squad, communicated whole plans in one-word slang, like secretarial shorthand. Jill was impressed at the ease with which they switched from casual banter to total professionalism. She supposed Barry might be the closest thing Wesker had to a friend in the RPD.

The RPD was supposed to be a transition gig, a rebound job after post-traumatic stress disorder in Rwanda. Jill stirred her coffee. The bureaucracy was a royal pain in the ass, to be sure, and days like these were lousy, but overall it wasn't so bad. For a temporary job...

"I know the word...that you long to hear..." Chris glanced over his shoulder. This time he was the one to catch eye contact; Jill leaned back, startled, then turned away. _What word is that, I wonder?_

She smiled a little bit. For a temporary job it wasn't so bad, really. Maybe she'd stay around for a while.

**ooo**


	7. Chapter VII: Rebecca

**ooo**

"What?"

Rebecca winced. She had been apprehensive about asking, but the question had been gnawing at her for hours now and she couldn't hold it in any more. "I want you to look me in the eye and say you killed twenty-three people," she blurted, then winced again. Billy's withering look didn't help. "It's just that...even if you did, I don't think I'd believe you. Th-that's all."

Even if that _were_ all, Billy was obviously taken aback. His eyebrows arched upwards in surprise, and briefly it even looked as though he was about to offer a reply. But he turned his back on her and frowned.

"Yeah, that's nice," he muttered. "But that decision's already been made. I'm a killer, all right? Deal with it."

Rebecca knew he was accepting guilt rather than admitting to it. Right then he seemed very far away. A strong wind blew in from over the Arklay Mountains, whipping fiercely over the open balcony. She wished it were possible to reach out to him, then wondered when was the last time anyone had. She felt a lot of sympathy for him.

"But--"

"I got news for you, buttercup," he retorted, with unexpected virulence. "In this country we don't decide things based on how we feel. We got a little thing called 'rule of law' that determines what's right and wrong. When the people decide you're guilty then for better or worse you're goddamn guilty. If you aren't gonna accept the decisions of the grand jury then you're gonna throw out everything America is based on."

Billy didn't need sympathy; he needed a kick in the ass. "Oh, I get it," Rebecca shot back sarcastically. "You're too virtuous to put up a fight. Yeah, right! If you're so ready to die then why'd you bother to run away from the van? You're just a hypocrite, you're as lost as anybody else."

That got his attention. At last Billy turned around and approached her, closing the wide and frightening distance. His being so close was almost as scary. "I don't know why I put up with such a smart mouth from a sweet tart like you."

"Because..." Rebecca thought about a smart comeback, but quickly changed her mind. "Well, you respect me, don't you?"

He blinked; his anger evaporated. "Eh? Yeah...?"

"Then isn't it obvious? You respect me, so I'm not attractive anymore. So you have to tolerate it." She pointed her index finger teasingly.

"That could be it," he agreed, chuckling, "but I dunno, you still look pretty good to me."

Rebecca smiled uncertainly. It _sounded_ like a compliment, but she wasn't quite sure what it meant. It could be that he didn't really take her seriously, or he did, and he was trying to say...if he did, then it was more than a compliment, it was... She coughed and snuck a look at Billy, who determinedly avoided her gaze. He was apparently even more embarrassed than she was; Rebecca hadn't known that was possible.

"Let's get going," she said, and they did. The matter was promptly forgotten, or at least put some ways aside. Zombies, Rebecca thought, were an important part of a healthy relationship. A good dose of pulse-pumping danger could make anyone get along.

They started exploring the east wing of the mansion, which looked like something out of a turn of the century romance novel. It felt grossly unfair that for once in her life Rebecca was in a place where a long, floaty dress was appropriate, and yet also completely impossible, too. Then again, Billy wasn't the kind of guy for an Austen-esque fantasy.

Billy had walked off to clear some rooms down the hall, elbowing his way in and staring around shrewdly like a secret agent. He had just poked his head in one room when he cried out. "Pumpkin! You gotta check this out!"

_He must be getting hungry. _"What is it?" she asked, then peeked in from behind him and squealed. "Oh my god, this is amazing! Move, get out of my way!"

His discovery was a rare find indeed: a private bathroom, stocked with personal supplies and untouched by monsters. A large rectangular mirror had been nailed into the wall over a marble countertop. The room was so sterile and precisely clean that it felt slightly feminine, even surgical. It may have belonged to one of Umbrella's nurses, or a particularly fastidious man.

Rebecca and Billy shoved and elbowed each other in the race to be first. In their situation hygiene had become a privilege. At last they worked it out so that they could share the space, with Rebecca standing just forward of Billy's arm.

As she saw her reflection she let out a gasp. Her skin was red and damp with sweat. A bruise on her neck swelled up into a blue-red egg around her chin. Most awful were the rubbery clumps of green and yellow sticking in her hair like putty.

"Billy! Billy, I look horrible! Why didn't you tell me? And...and how come your hair is completely fine?" she demanded. "Yours is longer than mine!"

"Superior styling product."

"How is that possible? You were in prison!"

Billy squirted a dollop of shaving cream into his palms and carefully applied it to his face. "Yeah, and I still manage to take care of my hair better than you do. Just because it's short doesn't mean you don't have to comb and condition. It wouldn't hurt to brush more often."

" 'Brush more often'?!" Rebecca snatched an old horsehair brush and tried to rake it through her hair, but the bristles stuck and snagged and pulled painfully at her scalp. She yelped in pain. "Yeah, I'd like to see you brush a bunch of human innards out--"

Without warning her eyes brimmed with tears. Over the course of the evening she'd had glimpses of the whole horror that had happened at Umbrella; it staggered her like a blow to the chest. She'd tried so hard to not think about she was doing, but sometimes a singularly human detail would arise, impossible to ignore. However brief, the glimpses were gut-wrenching and reduced her to a miserable wreck.

At first she'd been embarrassed, almost ashamed of her sentiment, but Billy seemed to understand. He just stood aside and let her have her time, never saying a word. Rebecca had felt a little better after he'd had his own moment. It had come in the form of a little yellow sticky note on a file that said, in a sloppy man's hand, _Get Gerber baby food, apple strawberry banana flavor OR JUDITH WILL KILL YOU!_

Billy had just looked at it blankly before walking out of the room. Then from the hallway Rebecca heard him yell _Fuck_ so loud the walls shook. It was the first time Rebecca had ever fully empathized with him.

_...but they're not just human innards, _Rebecca thought despairingly. _These are parts of innocent people who were murdered or neglected. The only thing left of all their lives, all their hopes and dreams, is this...this..._

Her hastily constructed defense mechanisms leapt to the rescue. _These aren't people! They're bodies, their souls are long gone. Umbrella took everything from them, but you can give them back their dignity. You aren't killing anyone, you aren't hurting anyone. This is mercy, not murder. You're making it possible for them to rest in peace. _

With great effort she pushed the thought out of her mind. She quickly wiped away a streak of tears and tried a weak smile. Billy, still bearded with thick shaving cream on the right half of his face, took the brush from her trembling hands.

"C'mon."

Holding her head with one hand and the brush with the other, he began to gingerly brush the mess out of her hair. His hands were firm but gentle; Rebecca had to admit that maybe Billy did know something about hair-brushing. She would have to ask him about it later when they weren't being assailed by hordes of the undead.

Billy whistled a few notes. He stood nearly two heads taller than Rebecca and had to bend close to do a thorough job. Rebecca could feel his warm breath on her neck as he hummed the lines:

"I'm a spy...in the house of love..."

**ooo**


	8. Chapter VIII: Jill

**ooo**

Jill had gotten a lot of contradictory advice at the academy, but one thing had been consistent: Bravo Team existed only to be a pain in the ass to Alpha Team. That wisdom came back to mind as she juggled her guns, bags, and food on her way to the helicopter. Much to everyone's annoyance, and perhaps no one's surprise, the call from Bravo had come just as Joseph was dishing out pizza. Since the police officer's code of honor strictly forbade wasting food, everything had to be taken along. Jill kept her bottled water in the crook of her arm and held three Thin Mints in her teeth.

Thin Mints were a sacred symbol of the S.T.A.R.S., not unlike religious artifacts. There were always at least three boxes of Thin Mints in the office at all times, and all of them were stowed in Wesker's desk. Wesker had a young goddaughter who occasionally came around the RPD to sell Girl Scout cookies, but he always bought up all the Thin Mints before anyone else had a chance. Because the Thin Mints were so highly prized, Alpha Team was left guessing as to why they'd been offered now.

"Maybe he feels bad about being a dick," Joseph guessed as he climbed in the helicopter next to Brad. In most military setups, the commander sat next to the pilot, but here best-friend status trumped rank. The others were waiting for Wesker to bring the radios and rescue gear.

"Wesker? Feel bad?" Brad snorted. "Not likely. He was right about Bravo needing help. I'm surprised he's not rubbing it in our faces more."

"He probably would be if Jill hadn't called him on his shit."

"He _was_ being kinda catty. What's with him lately? Always flipping out when the phone rings..."

Jill took a bite of pizza, struggling to keep the layer of toppings on her slice. The S.T.A.R.S. helicopters were essentially boxes with engines and roughly as stable. In the middle of the night it felt like being cramped at the bottom of a well. "Maybe he knows something," she suggested. "The last time we got cookies was just before our pay raise got denied."

"But that was only two. Three each? He must feel really sorry for us."

"Or maybe it was a sign." Joseph suddenly looked uncomfortable and he glanced skittishly at Brad. "Like how the mob boss kisses his nephew or whatever before he bumps him off, right? Maybe he _knows_."

"Oh shit, you think...?"

They shared a knowing nod and turned to the others, who were already waiting for an explanation. It was only a matter of time before Brad and Joseph had to confess their schemes; neither was particularly good at keeping secrets. "Well, uh," Joseph began, "you know the Mary, right? The chick in the forensics lab I hooked up with a while back?"

"Do we ever," said Chris with a grin.

"Right, well, see, after one night she left her camera at my house. I was gonna give it right back, really, but then she said that the roll had photos of all the new female hires on it--you know, in officer blues or the gym uniforms, and it's not that they're dirty or anything, but if you had them--"

"Basically there's a whole roll of personal pictures of all the woman officers in Wesker's desk," Brad finished. "We were hoping that the supervising investigators might find it and it would be..."

"Hilarious."

"Yeah. I just hope this isn't Wesker's way of saying he signed our death warrant."

It was a pretty funny idea; on the other hand, considering everything he went through, Jill thought it was a miracle that Wesker didn't keep his team chained to a wall. If anything he wasn't hard-ass enough.

She noticed something rigid in the way Barry sat across from her. He leaned against the door and stared silently into his crossed arms, not looking up even for a moment. His usual gruff demeanor seemed subdued, almost brooding. Even in the darkness Jill could tell something was very wrong. "You all right?" she muttered.

"More or less. Just tired." He tried to stretch backwards, but there wasn't room enough to support his bulk and he ended up jabbing Jill in the knees. "Oh, uh, sorry. Heh. Guess a better question is, are you ready?"

"I'm ready for anything if you're backing me up," she said. It was meant to reassure, but Barry was unmoved.

"Yeah, but I'm gettin' old. May not always be there to take care of you. Can't lean too hard on your partner, you know? Gotta be able to stand on your own."

Jill was naturally independent, but she knew the importance of a strong team. Barry's advice, however well-intentioned, was against everything she had ever learned, heard, and personally experienced firsthand. "Barry," she said, feeling increasingly uneasy, "Barry, come on, don't talk like that. We're partners. I know you're always going to have my back."

"Y-yeah..."

"Besides, you're the only one I can count on. I don't have an alternative." She jerked a thumb in the other direction, where Brad, Chris and Joseph were gleefully singing a profanity-laced edition of "Popeye The Sailor Man". Barry only managed a weak half-smile.

"They're not so bad," he said softly. "They're good guys, all of 'em. They won't ever let you down."

"Neither will you." When she saw Barry's face she gave Chris a friendly nudge. As much as she detested having to be so overtly amiable, right then it seemed necessary. "Isn't that right, Chris?" she asked loudly. "Isn't Barry the best big-gun man we could ask for?"

Chris emerged from beneath two slices of thirteen-topping pizza. Blobs of tomato sauce stuck in the sparse bristles around his chin. "What's that? Oh, yeah, sure. Barry's as good as they get! Except when he falls asleep on post, that is." Jill shot him the universal female look of Not Helping and he quickly amended his statement. "I mean, not that he does often. 'Cause nobody's perfect, right? Hell, I mess up all the time."

"We can't do shit without the double-B," Joseph agreed.

"Yeah," Brad chimed in, "without Barry we wouldn't even _look_ responsible."

Men in movies were more eloquent and dramatic, but Jill preferred a sincere expression of affection, however crude. Hearing the others talk so highly of Barry made her wonder if they'd say the same for her some day. It was a better endorsement than any amount of professional recommendations. Even with such glowing praises, Barry didn't seem pleased. He just held his head in his hands.

Finally Wesker came on, carrying the last of the gear and extra ammunition. He closed the wide doors behind him and took a seat beside Barry. "Let's go, Vickers," he commanded.

"Aye-aye, captain. Say, you think Barry's pretty awesome, right?"

"He's being all down on himself," Joseph explained.

Wesker held his hands flat on his knees, his posture regal. There was a rare benevolence in his tone and his lips were curled, which was about as close as Wesker ever came to truly smiling. "Of course," he said, sounding like a benevolent father. "Barry would do anything to protect the people he cares about."

Barry slowly looked up at Wesker. Of everything that had been said, only Wesker's compliment had struck home. Jill didn't understand what had had so much impact. It was in her nature to challenge him, but something about the emotional reaction told her she had no place to ask.

She frowned and reluctantly kept her mouth shut as the helicopter took off. Around her the engines revved up and the propellers began spinning with a deafening roar. It was several minutes before the noise died down enough for Jill to hear anything inside, and longer still before she heard Chris trying to get her attention.

"Hey," he said between mouthfuls of sausage, "My sister won a radio contest and got two free movie tickets."

Jill blinked. "That's...good."

"Yeah, but she doesn't want 'em, so she gave 'em to me. I was thinkin', since we'll both have two weekends of vacation saved up by the end of the month, we could afford to take some time off. The movie comes out in August, so..."

"What movie?" Jill asked automatically, in order to make it clear that she hadn't been at all taken aback by his offer and was purely interested in an opportunity to go to the movies.

"It's 'The Avengers'. It looks good!"

Although Jill rarely kept up with the media, she had seen enough to know that a movie based off a mediocre cartoon would be cringe-inducing at best and godawful at worst. No wonder Claire had given up the tickets. Even free was probably too much. The idea of wasting a few hours over the weekend in a movie theatre full of irritating teenagers, stoners and assholes for crappy entertainment was about as enticing as a root canal.

"Sure, I'll go."


	9. Chapter IX: The End

**ooo**

**REBECCA'S ENDING**

**ooo**

Rebecca was the last onto the small police helicopter. The big man from Alpha Team had shoved into one side of the seats, and Jill and Chris had followed next to him. Rebecca supposed it was important that they be close just then; she empathized with that need. But sitting, even leaning, felt like too much right now. Instead she fell to her knees and lay down under the opposite bench, facing away from them. The cold metal shook under her as the chopper took flight.

"Hey..." someone said.

"I'm tired," Rebecca mumbled, and folded her hands under her cheek.

"Well, okay!" came the voice of the pilot, hollering to make himself heard. "Sorry it took me so long. I'd just let you guys off when the engine stalled. I had to touch down and get it fixed before I could come back. It took forever at that time of night."

"No worries, Brad," Chris answered. "You came through in the end, and that's all that matters."

"Yeah, all right. Where are the others?"

Rebecca stared into the steel corner. A layer of dust as thick as a blanket housed a few spiders and a single ladybug shell. She watched the spiders stir in their little webs.

"There aren't others."

"But Joseph, Wesker--"

"They're dead. Brad..."

"What do you..." Rebecca didn't need to see the pilot to sense his anger and bewilderment. When he spoke again he was sputtering. "That's not...Joseph isn't--"

"We _saw_ them die!" cried Jill, agonized. "Brad, please!"

The scene would repeat itself, Rebecca was sure, for days and months and maybe even years afterwards. How would anyone be able to believe what had happened? For every victim of Umbrella, there would be families unable to comprehend what had happened to their loved ones. Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut tight, but the images didn't go away. The blood was vivid, all-consuming; it surrounded her. When she opened her eyes one of the small spiders had captured another and was greedily sucking away its life.

"Bravo Team," the big man said. "What happened to them? Where are they?" Rebecca realized that she didn't know the fates of the rest of her comrades. She was silent while the others conferred amongst themselves,. They were quiet so as not to disturb her, but she heard them all the same.

"Kenneth..."

"We found his body first. And Forest..."

"He died on the balcony. We had his bandolier..."

"Enrico was wounded and shot."

_Shot...Wesker? _Rebecca thought. Wesker's own bullet in her jacket was practically an afterthought. It seemed more merciful to shoot someone rather than let them be picked apart by zombies. Or was it crueler, killing someone who posed no threat? Did Wesker hesitate, even for a moment?

"Richard died of poison."

"That leaves Edward..."

"He's dead," Rebecca said hollowly. "I killed him."

For a moment there was something like quiet, then the pilot blurted a few incoherent curses. His voice wavered between a strangled cough and tears. "What the fuck," he managed. "What the fuck. I...fuck. I'm not...I'm not leaving unless Joseph's with us."

"Brad!" Jill repeated. "Brad, we can't. We couldn't..."

"No, Jill. It's all right. Brad..." Chris was composed even though the anguish in his voice was apparent. "Bring up the coordinates where we were first let off. It's not far from there."

"Chris," she pleaded.

"He's right. It's important to at least...to see him."

So no one would mourn for Wesker. That was probably what he would've wanted, anyhow. Rebecca couldn't stop thinking about how the night had been a nonstop lesson in death: everything she'd seen challenged her understanding. She wasn't even sure what death meant from just a medical perspective anymore.

Death was what Marcus and Wesker had coveted and feared. They had immersed themselves in it, not to die, but to manipulate its power. Their experiments grew out of an obsession to blur the realm between the dead and the living. Wesker had wanted to follow Marcus's example, to die and emerge again. The entire disaster at Umbrella sprang from that constant battle waging between nature and artifice, hope and deception, life and death.

And in calling Billy dead she had finally set him free.

Rebecca decided she didn't want to be awake when the others went to see the body. She was too tired to grieve. Moreover, it wasn't her place. She had never known him, she would be an intruder in a place only Alpha Team could go. It would be her burden to remember Bravo, because there was no one left to weep for them.

She closed her eyes again and slept the sleep of the dead.

**ooo**

**JILL'S ENDING**

**ooo**

Jill moved slightly from her place on Chris's shoulder. She had worried at first, thought it might be too much, but after seeing what was left of Joseph, she didn't care anymore. To her surprise, Chris had just smiled grimly and patted her leg. He was sleeping now, but there were wrinkles, dark circles and lines that appeared to have creased permanently into his skin. He looked as though he'd aged years overnight.

She noticed Rebecca hunched on the ground. Her whole upper body was shaking with short, jerky motions. The engines resounded over a little noise Jill knew was there.

"Hey," Jill offered.

Rebecca glanced up, her cheeks wet and . "Oh, um," she stammered, "I, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up. It's stupid..."

Jill was overcome with sympathy for this poor girl, who'd had such high hopes and an incredible future ahead of her before today. Now she had lost her teammates, her job, and her innocence. All the youthful optimism and joy she had about the world would be gone forever. She wanted to take Rebecca in her arms, stroke her hair and say _I'm so sorry, it's all right, let yourself cry. _But Jill couldn't offer comfort, no matter how much she wanted to. It wasn't in her nature.

She did, however, know someone who could.

"Come up here," she said, gesturing at the tiny space of cushion left on Chris's other side. "There's room."

Rebecca wiped her eyes. "N-no, it's okay."

"It's not okay with me. Sit here." There was an unintentional harshness in her voice she didn't mean to have and winced. It would be nice to be gentle for once. "Please," she added halfheartedly.

Although Rebecca didn't look totally convinced, she timidly stood up and staggered across the shifting plane to where Chris was sitting. Jill elbowed Chris hard in the ribs. "Hey, Chris..."

Chris awoke with a loud, throaty snort. "What? Huh? Uh..." When he saw Rebecca he grabbed her close and forced Jill and Barry to shove over some more. "Hey there, doodlebug," he said kindly, ruffling her hair. "It's okay. You can go back to sleep."

For whatever reason, Rebecca began to cry harder. She buried her head in his chest and sobbed. "It's not okay," she hiccuped between tears, "it's not over. There are gonna be questions, trials, doctors..."

"You don't need to worry about that. Just sleep for now. I'll take care of everything."

The way Chris talked was so determined, so confident--so unlike the Chris Jill had come to know. His playfulness wasn't forced, but it was undercut by a new grave seriousness. Jill tilted her chin to whisper in his ear.

"How are you going to take care of this?" she asked.

Chris leaned his face against hers. His breath smelled of salt and the last traces of greasy garlic sauce. "Dunno," he whispered back, "but somebody's gotta, and it might as well be me."

Now Jill rested her head beside his, more for support than anything else. No one in their right mind would try to start piecing lives back together after a disaster like this. Of course, Chris wasn't in his right mind, and he'd take it all on himself if he could. That sort of titan responsibility came as naturally to him as breathing. Jill could already tell he'd work personally to take care of Rebecca, pay for bills in the hospital, and find lawyers for a trial that would finally take down the Umbrella Corporation.

Yet this was different than the way he'd stood up and cared for Claire. He was up against something greater than a personal tragedy, something big enough to destroy him, swallow him whole.

_But...you don't have to do it alone..._

_I'll be there._

Barry squeezed her other hand, and Jill squeezed back. _We'll be there. _They would all be, whether they wanted to or not. Umbrella had made that choice for them. Whatever the future meant, it wouldn't be so bad if they--if he--could be at her side.

She pulled away and turned to the front seat that was empty, that should not have been empty. There was still a half-empty pizza box on the ground and an empty can of Coca-Cola that had been Joseph's.

_We'll be there..._

Rebecca fingered a long silver chain around her neck. Jill remembered that she had been out for twice as long as the others; what horrors had she seen? What kind of nightmares had she endured? What sort of woman would she become?

_We'll be there._


End file.
